953 

M2I4 
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ROWLAND  B.  MAHANY 


UC-NRLF 


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Of  this  Book  there  were  printed 
Fifteen  Hundred  Copies.  This  is 
Number  £-67 


TUSCANY 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

ROWLAND  B.  MAHANY 


Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because 

red-lin'd  accounts 
Were    richer    than    the    songs  of 

Grecian  years  ? 

— Keats1  "Isabella." 


1909 

UNION  AND  TIMES  PRESS 
BUFFALO 


Copyright,  1909 
By  WILLIAM  A.  KING 


A  hintnan  inter,  gentle 

anb  hrrotr, 

ihrHf  pof ma  arc  Utarrtbrd 
bg  fir r  Qoungral  sun 

in  tribulr  of 
an  cbrrlasttng 


M1B1969 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TUSCANY  i 

ALTESSE 3 

To  THE  WIND  FLOWER 4 

BASHFUL  CHLOE  5 

THE  FERRY  6 

LOVE  CONQUEROR 7 

MEMORY  AND  HOPE  8 

SONG  10 

TONE    10 

NEAR  ART  THOU,  MY  BELOVED 1 1 

ALL  IN  ALL 1 1 

GETTYSBURG  12 

To  A  LOVED  ONE 15 

NEPENTHE  16 

GETHSEMANE  16 

MY  MOTHER'S  HAND 17 

IN  LANDS  OF  AFTERNOON 18 

A  SIGH   19 

ON  A  PHOTOGRAPH 20 

To  A  FRIEND 20 

To  A  FlSHERGIRL 21 

LIKE  ART  THOU  TO  A  FLOWER 21 

A  FRAGMENT  FROM  ^SCHYLUS 22 

LOVE'S  PALACE 24 

EASTER  ANTHEM  25 

LOVE  IMPRISONED   27 

THE  CHARMS  OF  RURAL  LIFE 28 

To  MILTON'S  DAUGHTERS 30 

THE  GATES  OF  DREAMS 31 

vii 


PAGE 

A  SALUTATION 31 

FIFTY  LINES  FROM  HOMER 32 

To  ONE  DREADING  OLD  AGE 34 

THE  WISH  35 

IN  TEMPERS  VALE 35 

PALM  SUNDAY 36 

MY  PURCHASE 36 

JOSEPH  O'CONNOR 37 

CHIMBORAZO  37 

IN  ARCADY 38 

To  A  LADY 39 

GODDESSES   40 

To  AN  EASTER  VIOLET 40 

To  A  FLOWER 41 

WHEN  HERRICK  SANG 41 

FRIENDS  AFTER- WISE 42 

WELLINGTON  43 

LEXINGTON  44 

FATE'S  ENMITY  44 

DECEPTION  45 

THE  MIRTH  OF  THE  GODS 45 

To  A  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 45 

THE  LONESOME  VALLEY 46 

OZYMANDIAS 48 

MY  HEART  WILL  KNOW 49 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  MAID 49 

THE  VOYAGERS 49 

RT.  REV.  STEPHEN  VINCENT  RYAN 50 

BIRTHDAY  GREETING  TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL 51 

SWEETLY  LAUGHING  LALAGE 52 

THE  SANITY  OF  GENIUS 52 

JAMES  G.  ELAINE 53 

GENERAL  GORDON 53 

JOY  AND  PAIN 54 

viii 


PAGE 

WHEN  LOVE  DIES 54 

THE  CRITICS  OF  BONAPARTE 55 

THE  ROSELEAF  AND  THE  ROCK 56 

To  ONE  WHO  LOVES  ITALY 57 

SERENITY 57 

LA  BELLE  BRETONNE 58 

ON  A  SILHOUETTE 58 

To  HER  IN  DREAMLESS  SLUMBER 58 

LA  FIORENTINA 59 

THE  ROSE  OF  LOVE 59 

Aux  HEROS  SANS  GLOIRE 60 

THE  CHOICE 61 

THE  SOVEREIGN  LOVE 61 

Two  EPITAPHS 62 

JAMES  N.  JOHNSTON 63 

RUDOLPH  W.  WOLFFSOHN 63 

A  VISION  IN  A  DREAM 64 

YOUTH  AND  GLORY 64 

ISABEL 65 

ROMA  ANTIQUA 66 

"MY  LOVE  OF  OLDEN  TIME" 67 

WHEN  WE  SHALL  PART 67 

THE  RETURN 68 

To  AN  EMPRESS 68 

LOVE  TO  LOVE 69 

MORS  HAUD  MOLESTA 69 

ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 69 

THE  POETS  70 

SIN'S  SON  AND  AZRAEL 70 

To  FATHER  CRONIN 71 

A  DEAR  WOMAN 7I 

lo  TRIUMPHE 72 

WILLIAM  A.  KING 72 

KEATS 73 


PAGE 

HARVARD   MEMORIES: 

To  HARVARD  COLLEGE 77 

CHARLES  F.  DUNBAR 77 

ON  A  BANQUET  CARD 78 

JOHN  J.  HAYES 78 

GEORGE  MARTIN  LANE 79 

EPHRAIM  EMERTON 79 

FREEMAN  SNOW 80 

SILAS  MARCUS  MACVANE 8p 

CHARLES  POMEROY  PARKER 81 

NATHANIEL  SOUTHGATE  SHALER 81 

LE  BARON  RUSSELL  BRIGGS .  82 


Tuscany 

O  smiling  land  of  Tuscany, 
I  would  but  do  thee  wrong, 
To  breathe  thy  matchless  witchery 
With  my  imperfect  song. 

But,  Italy,  thy  memories, 

They  lure  the  heart  of  me ; 
Land  fairest  of  all  lands  that  are, — 

Thou  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea ! 

Yea,  Rome  is  old,  Bologna  wise, 

And  Venice  is  divine, 
While  Naples  and  her  Capri  are 

Beyond  the  speech  of  mine. 

And  many  a  longing  dream  of  yore, 

My  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
For  that  dear  day  when  last  I  saw 

The  Euganean  hills. 

But  loveliest  of  thy  lovely  realms, 

Etruria  the  Serene, 
Is  of  thy  mountains  and  thy  vales 

The  glory  and  the  queen. 

Where  Dante  thought  and  Browning  dreamed, 

On  the  Old  Bridge  I  stand, 
And  see  again  where  Cosmo  rode, 

And  great  Lorenzo  planned. 


And  she  who  in  the  olden  days 
Taught  these  fair  tales  to  me, — 

Would  that  my  mother  might  be  here 
To  keep  me  company. 

Or  she,  the  soul  of  gentleness, 

The  idol  of  my  youth, — 
Not  wholly  gone!    For  I  have  still 

The  memory  of  their  truth. 

Yon  gleams  the  pride  of  Tuscany, 

The  loved,  historic  tower, 
That  from  her  Florence  soars  as  from 

The  calyx  of  a  flower. 

And  all  her  hills  are  golden 
With  the  rays  of  old  romance, 

Her  moonlight  silvers  Arno's  vales 
Through  all  their  wide  expanse. 

O  land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 

Of  laughter  and  of  wine, 
Where  every  dream  is  all  of  art, 

And  all  of  art  divine ! 

For,  Tuscany,  thy  cities  each 

Hath  glory  of  her  own ; 
It  is  the  glory  of  them  all 

That  each  can  charm  alone. 

Arezzo  the  alluring, 

And  Lucca  rightly  proud, 
Volterra  of  the  Lordly  Gate 

Through  which  the  centuries  crowd. 


Livorno  dear!    Siena  sweet! 

Carrara,  loved  of  Art! 
These  and  thy  peoples  help  to  make 

Of  thee  a  land  apart. 

I  love  them  all !    I  love  them  each, — 

Pistoja's  golden  plain ; 
And  Pisa's  Leaning  Wonder, 

Where  her  river  seeks  the  main. 

O  Tuscany,  O  Tuscany, 
A  thousand  healths  to  thee, 

The  fairest  of  the  Fairylands 
That  gem  the  Azure  Sea ! 


Altesse 

Thou  of  magnolia  blooms, 

I  love  thee  still; 
And  though  the  years  stretch  on: 

Of  good  or  ill, 
Thou  and  thy  loveliness 

My  vision  fill. 

Princess,  what  more  of  life 

Is  there  than  this  ? 
Where  find  a  higher  heaven 

Than  thy  love's  bliss, 
Or  just  to  have  the  memory 

Of  thy  kiss  ? 


To  the  Wind  Flower 

Sweet,  winsome  flower,  that  decks  the  wold 
Despite  the  snowdrift's  chilling  cold, 
Dost  thou  to  March's  kiss  unfold 

Thy  petals  pure? 

Or  hast  thou  wakened  at  the  song 
The  red-breast  trills,  as,  bold  and  strong, 
Through  early  groves  he  wings  along, 

Of  summer  sure? 

Nay,  soft  as  is  thy  perfume  thrown, 

So  is  thy  mystic  coming  known ; 

Thou  bloomest  when  the  winds  have  blown, 

A  beauteous  thing! 

That  we  may. know  when  storms  are  rife, 
And  tawdry  joys  fade  in  their  strife, 
The  sweetest  flowers  of  human  life 

From  trouble  spring. 

Thus  thou  within  this  tangled  dell, 
Where  wildling,  woodsy  spirits  dwell, 
Hast  cast  the  magic  of  thy  spell 

O'er  all  the  scene; 

Like  some  fair  maid  with  face  demure, 
Yet  witching  glance  from  eye-depths  pure, 
Whose  every  aspect  doth  allure 

With  grace  serene. 

Sure  blest,  sweet  flower,  is  lot  of  thine, 
And  doubly  blest  compared  with  mine ; 
Thou  seest  content  each  sun  decline, 
Nor  askest  why ; 


I  dumbly  watch  youth's  rosy  years, 
As  each,  'twixt  meteor  hopes  and  fears, 
Trembles  and  fades  and  disappears 
In  leaden  sky. 

But  e'en  upon  thy  tender  leaf, 
I  spy  a  dew-drop  tear  of  grief ; — 
Would  human  sorrows  were  as  brief, 

And,  ah,  as  few! 

Yet  oft  what  seemeth  gruesome  ill, 
Is  but  the  dew  our  souls  distill 
To  keep  us  sweet,  against  our  will, 

And  fair  to  view. 


Bashful  Chloe 

(Horace,  Od.  I,  23.) 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  like  a  fawn 
That  seeks  its  gentle  mother's  side, 

Timid  on  pathless  mountain  lawn, 
Lest  breeze  or  brake  may  ill  betide. 

For  if  the  coming  of  the  spring 
With  rustling  life  awake  the  trees, 

If  lizard  move, — a  startled  thing 
She  trembles  in  her  heart  and  knees. 

I  seek  you  not, — like  tiger  wild 
Or  Afric  lion, — to  destroy! 

Cease,  then,  to  be  a  timorous  child, 
And  be  your  lover's  blushing  joy! 


The  Ferry 

(Uhland's  "Auf  der  Uberfahrt.") 

O'er  this  stream  in  days  of  yore, 
I  was  ferried  once  before ; 
Here  the  castle  sunlit  glows, 
Yon  the  weir,  still  rushing,  flows. 

And  within  this  wherry's  bound, 
Comrades  twain  were  with  me  found; 
One  a  friend,  more  like  a  sire, 
And  a  youth  with  hopes  like  fire. 

One  in  peace  wrought  here  below, 
And  in  peace  departed  so ; 
But  that  eager,  restless  form 
Fell  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

Ah,  if  to  the  days  long  fled' — 
Happier  hours — my  thoughts  be  led, 
Then  I  ever  yearn  to  see 
Those  dear  friends  death  reft  from  me. 

Yet  what  keeps  all  friendship  whole, 
Is  when  soul  communes  with  soul; 
Soulful  were  the  hours  we  passed, 
Soulful  ties  still  bind  me  fast. 

Take,  oh  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee, 
And  with  joy  I  give  it  thee ; 
For  two  friends  aforetime  lost 
Have  with  me  in  spirit  crossed. 


Love  Conqueror 

Twain  souls  came  to  the  loveless  mead  of  Hell, 
Wherein  no  flower  of  beauty  e'er  had  bloomed, 
And  whose  reed  shores  by  Acheron  were  laved ; 
Nor  ever  sun  shone  in  that  midnight  land, 
But  sable  darkness  dwelt,  and  a  wind  blew 
Like    snow-drowned    bay   of   Alpine  -  Bernard's 

hounds, 

Or  wail  of  the  primeval  forest  drear 
Swept  by  mysterious  and  voiceful  storms 
Whose  birth  men  ken  not  of ;  and  all  was  woe, 
A  woe  walled  in  by  black  infinitude. 
And  they  who  loved  aforetime  here  were  met, — 
Who  loved,  yet  of  their  mighty  love  were  dumb, 
Who  let  love's  torch  lie  smoking  in  the  dust, 
Nor  lit  life's  light  from  that  ambrosial  flame. 
So  joy's  soft  splendor  faded  from  their  days, 
As  dies  away  Aurora's  rosy  glance 
In  the  dim  depths  of  ancient  Tithon's  orbs. 
But  on  this  shore  of  sorrow  now  they  stood 
With  face  a-cold  that  knew  each  other  not, 
Till  their  eyes  met  that  ever  yearned  for  love; 
And,  lo !   the  frozen  winter  of  their  looks, 
Broke  into  orient  dawns  of  joy  supreme, 
And  that  sweet  song,  unsung  in  days  of  yore, 
Leaped  to  the  music  of  a  hope  fulfilled, 
And  in  that  hour  Love  changed  their  Hell  to 

Heaven ! 


Memory  and  Hope 


O  Memory  set  for  himself  a  course ! 
Fond  Memory  of  a  golden  past, 
When  youth  in  joyous  lines  was  cast, 
When  life  was  young 
And  woodlands  rung 
With  that  sweet  song  which  Nature  sung, 

In  those  fair  days  of  yore. 
And  Memory  entered  into  the  race 
To  win,  at  a  bound,  high  honor's  place, 
Yet  ever  he  backward  turned  his  face 

To  the  past's  Elysian  shore ; 
So  he  saw  but  the  toil-worn,  uncrowned  throng 
In  the  eager  race  that  swept  along, 

Nor  ever  his  eyes  beheld 

The  host  of  the  crowned  whose  goal  was  won, 
Whose  feet  were  swift  till  the  race  was  done, 

By  Victory's  voice  impelled. 
Then  dark  on  his  soul  a  shadow  fell, 
And  under  the  potence  of  that  spell, 
To  his  wearied  mind 
Life  seemed  unkind, 

And  he  fain  would  think  of  the  long  ago, 
But  the  race  pressed  on  in  its  fiery  glow, 
And  waited  not  for  the  fleet  or  slow, 
And  he  was  left  behind — 
His  course  was  o'er 
Forevermore ! 


II. 

O  eager  Hope  went  into  the  world! 
Bright  Hope,  of  form  and  feature  fair, 
With  orient  eyes  and  sun-swept  hair, 
And  heart  of  fire 
Wherein  desire 
Of  his  high  aim  could  ne'er  expire, 

Though  girt  with  darkling  fears. 
But  rough  before  his  pathway  spread, 
Peopled  with  many  a  form  of  dread, 
Yet  winged-sandall'd  on  he  sped 
To  greet  the  smiling  years ; 
And,  far  from  the  present's  tangled  maze, 
On  the  light  of  the  future  fixed  his  gaze, 
And  the  gleam  of  the  laurel  crown ; 
Nor  heeded  he  envy's  serpent  hiss, 
Nor  faithless  friend,  nor  siren  kiss, 
Nor  dread  detraction's  frown. 
For  his  soul  was  blythe  with  a  purpose  strong, 
And  he  heard  an  echoing  triumph  song, 
With  a  presage  of  cheer 
Swell  sweet  and  clear; 
And  the  path  fled  under  his  flying  feet 
As  he  passed  the  fleetest  among  the  fleet, 
And  Honor  welcomed  him  unto  her  seat 
While  Glory  crowned  him  peer. 
And  life  was  fair 
And  debonair! 


We  aye  and  aye  can  be  what  we  would  seem : 
Hope  is  success,  and  Memory — but  a  dream ! 


Song 

Though  o'er  wind-swept  barren  leas 
Float  the  Yule-tide  memories ; 
Though  the  snow-drift  hide  the  heather, 
Love  cares  naught  for  wintry  weather! 

Tempests  o'er  the  path  may  lour, 
Roses  fade  from  Youth's  sweet  bower ; 
But  if  we  twain  be  together, 
Love  will  smile  at  wintry  weather! 

For  within  the  heart  is  Spring 
With  life's  fairest  blossoming, — 
And  time's  fondest  joys  we  tether 
When  Love  laughs  at  wintry  weather! 


lone 

Sweetness,  Purity  and  Truth 
Are  the  handmaid's  of  thy  youth ; 
And  thy  friendship  that  doth  last, 
Makes  the  future  as  the  past, 
And  about  the  present  throws      x 
All  the  perfume  of  the  rose. 

O  thy  smile  is  like  the  smiling 
Of  some  dream  at  morn  beguiling 
All  the  senses  with  the  tender 
Glamour  hopes  to  memories  render. 
Noble,  fair  and  true  thou  art, 
And  all-golden  is  thy  heart. 

10 


Near  Art  Thou,  My  Beloved 

(Goethe's  "N'dhe  des  Geliebten") 

I  think  of  thee,  when  from,  the  sea's  expanses 

The  sunshine  beams ; 
I  think  of  thee,  when  rippling  moonlight  dances 

In  picturing  streams. 

I  vision  thee,  when  on  the  distant  ridgeway 

The  dust  appears — 

In  darksome  night,  when  on  the  slender  bridge- 
way 

The  wanderer  fears. 

Tis  thee  I   hear  when  yon  with  echoing  voices 

The  billow  calls ; 

Thy  whisper  in  still  wood  my  heart  rejoices, 
When  silence  falls. 

With  thee  I  dwell ;  though  I  be  far  that  love  thee, 

Yet  art  thou  near. 
The  sunlight  fails  ;  soon  shine  the  stars  above  me  ; 

Oh,  wert  thou  here ! 


All  in  All 

Who   strangles    fear   and   puts    hope    from   his 

throne, 

Yet  seats  thereon  a  silent,  tireless  will 
To  be  not  conquered  but  to  conquer  still, — 

That  man  can  call  the  golden  world  his  own. 


Gettysburg* 

What  shall  we  say  to  crown  the  honored  dead, 
What  voice  of  ours  shall  magnify  their  fame 

Who  on  this  field  for  truth  and  country  bled, 
In  storm  of  shot,  in  hell  of  battle's  flame? 

Weak  were  our  words  to  sound  the  note  of  woe, 
And  vain  the  woven  laurel  of  our  praise, 

If  that  high  faith  by  which  their  memories  grow, 
Exalteth  not  the  spirit  of  our  days. 

We  sit  at  ease !    Across  our  prosperous  years 
No  bugle  peal  of  war's  alarum  sounds  ; 

No  host  of  armed  battalions  now  appears, 
To  desolate  what  smiling  Commerce  founds. 

Blest  is  our  land !    It  teems  with  all  increase, 

Its  glory  is  the  glory  of  mankind ; 
And  all  that  Nationhood  can  give  in  peace, 

The  slaves  of  older  systems  here  may  find. 

We  greet  today  the  great  majestic  past, 

Wherein  these  heroes  wrought  their  work  sub- 
lime, 

Whose  glory  never  can  be  overcast, 
While  progress  treads  the  broad  highway  of 
time. 

Here  on  this  storied  ground  whose  holy  sod 
Is  fertile  with  the  blood  they  nobly  shed, 

*Dedication  Poem,  delivered  July  i,  1888,  at  the  unveiling  of  the 
monument  erected  by  the  Ninth  Veteran  Regiment  of  New  York 
Volunteers,  in  honor  of  their  comrades  who  fell  on  this  battlefield  a 
quarter  of  a  century  before. 

12 


We  gather  now  to  consecrate  to  God 

The  fame  of  His,  and  our,  immortal  dead. 

On  Gettysburg  the  fate  of  ages  hung, 

The  unborn  millions  in  the  future's  womb 

Rejoiced,  when  our  exultant  anthem  rung, 
And    Freedom's    light    broke    over    Slavery's 
tomb. 

Oh,  never  struggle  was  akin  to  this ! 

The  olden  battles  meant  dynastic  gains : 
This  ranks  both  Marathon  and  Salamis, 

For  humankind  was  freed  upon  these  plains. 

Here  on  this  spot  where  countless  heroes  fell, 
We  rear  this  fair  memorial  to  their  worth, 

That  to  all  generations  it  may  tell 

That  freedom  everlasting  here  had  birth. 

O  hallowed  shaft!     It  speaks  the  garnered  grief 
Of  those  whose  tears  forever  silent  fall 

For  their  lost  loved  ones,  whose  existence  brief 
A  dream  of  glory  seemed,  and  that  was  all! 

They  went  in  strength,  to  nevermore  return; 

Their  dust  was  mingled  with  the  myriad  years ; 
But  while  high  deeds  make  bosoms  beat  and  burn, 

Their  names  will  grace  the  temple  Fame  up- 
rears. 

Through  all  the  changing  future's  vast  unknown, 
Their  valor  points  the  length  of  freedom's  day ; 

We,  for  the  love  we  bear  them,  raise  this  stone, 
To  mark  the  mightiest  triumph  on  the  way. 

13 


Yet  why  recount  the  ceaseless  roll  of  fame? 

Their  glory  is  as  deathless  as  the  stars ! 
Of  those  that  fought,  we  see  each  shining  name, 

Where  neither  praise  nor  censure  makes   or 
mars. 

Here  where  their  hearts  were  wrung,  we  conse- 
crate 
Ourselves  to  that  great  truth  for  which  they 

died  — 

Their  legatees  of  freedom  in  a  State 
Where  evermore  the  Union  shall  abide. 

And  as  our  love  of  love  the  Nation  claims, 
Let  us  forget  the  fury  of  past  strife ; 

And  North  and  South  with  reunited  aims, 
Move  forward  in  the  future's  grander  life. 

Yea,  that  the  South  fought  well,  let  us  rejoice: 
They  were  our  brothers  chivalrous  and  brave; 

And  with  time's  softened  feelings,  let  our  voice 
Place  valor's  wreath  above  each  hero's  grave. 

We  are  too  great  to  cherish  olden  wrongs  ; 

The  din  of  conflict  dies  within  our  ears, 
As  swelling  on  the  breeze  the  festal  songs 

Of   Peace  and   Friendship  greet  the  coming 
years. 

O  North  and  South,  O  Nation  one  and  free! 

We  lay  our  whole  existence  at  thy  feet, — 
For  here  the  hallowed  dead  that  died  for  thee, 

Have  rounded  out  and  made  thy  fate  complete. 

14 


To  a  Loved  One 

Time  on  jocund  wing  speeds  fast 
With  the  treasures  of  the  past; 
Love  alone  defies  his  will, — 
Mother,  thou  art  with  me  still. 

Sweet  the  dreams  that  round  thee  clung, 
When  the  bloom  of  hope  was  young ; 
Fair  the  castles  that  we  built, 
Ere  the  wine  of  life  was  spilt. 

Now  ambition's  earthly  fire 
Purer  glows  in  faith's  desire, 
That  our  parting  may  but  mean 
A  few  rushing  years  between. 

And  these  years  of  joy  and  pain 
Shall  to  me  be  not  in  vain ; 
For  the  pain  will  cleanse  the  dross, 
And  the  joy  support  the  cross. 

Never  year  shall  come  or  go, 
When  thy  thoughts  I  shall  not  know ; 
And  the  love-light  in  thy  face, 
Will  become  a  means  of  grace. 

O  my  mother,  thou  and  I 
Still  live  in  the  years  gone  by ; 
Though  our  wishes  now  are  fled, 
They  shall  blossom,  Christ  has  said. 


15 


Nepenthe 

Come,  Sorrow,  smooth  my  brow  and  kiss  my  lips, 

And  on  my  bosom  pillow  thy  sweet  head ; 

For  in  thy  silent  face  and  loving  eyes 

I  trace  the  memories  of  long-fled  years. 

Ay,  thou  art  kind  as  thou  art  beautiful, 

And  never  Joy  in  its  supremest  hour 

Gave  aught  of  happiness  as  dear  as  thou. 

For  thou,  the  winsome  shadow  of  my  hope, 

The  sweet  Ideal  of  the  vanished  years, 

Art  still  an  image  of  the  loved  and  lost, 

E'en  though  on  evening  wings  the  Real  hath  fled. 

Yea,  Sorrow,  I  will  kiss  thy  pensive  mouth, 

And  call  thee  steadfast  friend  and  love  thee  well ; 

For  thou  wert  constant  when  all  else  were  false. 

But  lo !  the  while  mine  eyes  with  memory's  tears 

Are  wet,  I  see  thy  sable  raiment  fall, 

And  in  my  arms  I  have  unconscious  clasped 

The  smiling,  white-winged  angel  of  the  Lord. 


Gethsemane 

How  strange  that  He  of  loftiest  thought  and 

power, 
Should   have  this  bitter   grief, — to  tell   His 

friends, 

(Yet  Peter,  afterwards,  made  full  amends), 
"Ye  could  not  watch  with  me  one  little  hour." 

16 


My  Mother's  Hand 

The  Future's  hand  I  fondly  hold, 
Soft,  jeweled,  white,  of  tender  mold, 
Whose  warmth  makes  life's  fair  hopes  unfold. 

Beneath  its  rosy  pressure  rise 
The  visions  of  the  morning  skies, 
The  dreams  that  float  where  glory  lies. 

Across  its  taper  fingers  flee 

The  mists  of  golden  joys  to  be, — 

A  king  were  wise  to  envy  me ! 

There  is  another  hand  I  hold, 
And  on  it  are  no  gems  of  gold ; 
'Tis  only  wrinkled,  wan  and  old. 

Yet  sweeter  than  the  Future's  youth, 
That  hand  that  kept  with  tender  ruth 
My  wandering  feet  in  ways  of  truth. 

My  mother's  hand!    Fast  on  it  drop 
The  blinding  tears  I  cannot  stop ; 
It  was  life's  early  stay  and  prop. 

0  mother,  in  thy  patient  eyes 

1  read  the  years  of  sacrifice, 

I  see  the  prayers  that  upward  rise. 

And  while  life's  changing  years  decay, 
In  grief's  dark  gloom  or  fortune's  ray 
Thy  hand  shall  be  my  guide  alway. 

17 


In  Lands  of  Afternoon 

Across  the  light  and  shadow  comes 

The  vision  of  a  perfect  day, — 
A  dream  of  thought  in  Grecian  years, 
When  winsome  April  dried  her  tears 
To  kiss  the  smiling  mouth  of  May. 

For  in  the  beauty  of  the  Spring 

With  Loveliness — to  me  more  sweet — 

I  wandered  o'er  a  flowery  lea 

To  golden-misted  Arcady 

With  singing  heart  and  tripping  feet. 

Oh,  she  was  one  of  Dian's  nymphs, 

Of  lightsome  step  and  artless  grace, 
And  nature  in  a  glad  surprise, 
Charmed  with  the  wonders  of  her  eyes 
Stole  half  its  beauties  from  her  face. 

In  lovelit  lands  of  afternoon, 

Careless,  the  way  of  joy  we  took, 
And  'mid  our  laughter  fair  and  free, 
We  plucked  the  sweet  anemone 

And  heard  the  babbling  of  the  brook. 

"And  did  we  speak  of  love  ?"    Why,  no ! 

How  could  you  think  of  such  a  thing? 
For  there  each  shrub  and  flower  and  tree 
All  sing  an  old-world  melody, 
And  Love,  in  Arcady,  is  King. 

18 


"What  realm  is  this  whereof  I  rave?" 

'Tis  sometimes  called  "Heart-Harmony"; 

There  buoyed  not  on  Icarian  wings, 

Exultant  Hope  forever  sings 
By  glade  and  stream  of  Arcady. 

"How  strayed  I  from  those  pleasaunce  bowers  ?" 
Why  do  you  ask?    Ah  me!    ah  me! 

A  wicked  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  led  my  feet  all  unaware 
Out  of  the  land  of  Arcady. 

"And  do  I  mourn?"    O  yes,  and  grieve; 

But  still  I  sing  soul-minstrelsy, 
And  though  the  many  seasons  melt, 
My  joy  fades  not,  for  I  have  dwelt 
In  Arcady,  in  Arcady! 

Some  day  a  little  laughing  Love 

Will  lead  me  to  that  land  again ; 
"And  shall  I  find  it  all  as  fair?" 
Ah  well,  in  hopes  that  she'll  be  there, 

It  will  be  Arcady  till  then ! 


A  Sigh 

Farewell,  dear  face,  through  memory  seen ; 

May  fortune  strew  before  thee  flowers 
Sweeter  than  those  which  might  have  been, 

Had  other  fates  been  ours. 

19 


On  a  Photograph 

Shadows  we  are  that  out  of  shadows  glide 

Into  the  shadows  present  and  to  come ; 
Yea,  with  dim  shadowy  yearnings  that  abide 

We  conjure  hopes  that  fleet  with  voices  dumb. 
But  in  this  realm  of  silent-footed  change, 

Unshadowed  friendship  lasts  unto  the  end ; 
So  let  this  face,  as  shadowy  seasons  range, 

Be  memory,  but  not  shadow,  of  a  friend. 


To  a  Friend 

I  heard  a  voice  of  wondrous  sweetness  rise 
Out  of  a  realm  of  gathered  melody, 
And  I  who  fared  upon  the  wind-worn  sea, 

Whose  phantom  land  of  hope  in  distance  lies, 

Turned  my  bark's  prow  a  moment,  while  mine 

eyes 
Caught  sight  of  one  whose  song  was  gay  and 

free, 
On  that  dear  shore  where  never  shipwrecks  be, 

For  lo !  he  stood  'neath  Glory's  smiling  skies. 

Before  my  fearless  ship,  the  rolling  miles 
Danced  in  the  glamour  of  youth's  fevered  sun  ; 

For  him  the  Hesperus  of  calm  content, 
That  rose  serene  above  Fame's  Blessed  Isles, 
Brought  toil's  surcease,  'midst  golden  honors 

won, 
The  proud  reward  of  proud  accomplishment. 

20 


To  a  Fishergirl 

(Heine's  "Du  Schones  Fischermadchen."  ) 

O  lovely  fishermaiden, 

Thy  shallop  speed  to  land ! 

Come  hither,  sit  beside  me, 
We'll  dally  hand  in  hand. 

Lay  on  my  heart  thy  tresses, 
Nor  startle  so  with  fright, 

For  fearlessly  thou  bravest 
The  tameless  ocean's  might. 

My  heart  is  like  the  ocean, 
Hath  storm  and  ebb  and  flow ; 

Yet  many  a  pearl  of  beauty 
Sleeps  in  the  depths  below. 


Like  Art  Thou  to  a  Flower 

(Heine's  "Du  bist  wie  eine  Blume") 

Like  art  thou  to  a  flower, 
So  sweet  and  pure  and  fair; 

I  gaze  on  thee  and  sadness 
Steals  o'er  me  unaware. 

'Twere  meet  that  on  thy  forehead 
I  fold  my  hands  in  prayer, 

That  God  may  ever  keep  thee 
So  pure  and  sweet  and  fair. 

21 


A  Fragment  from  ^Eschylus 

(The  "Agamemnon,"  First  Choral  Song,  1-40.) 

Now  the  tenth  year  has  come  since  Priam's  great 

foes,  Menelaus 
And    Agamemnon    the    King — that    strengthful 

yoke,  the  Atreidse — 
Twain-throned  by  the  favor  of  Zeus,  with  dual 

scepters  of  power, 
Led  from  this  land  their  fleet,  a  thousand  ships 

of  the  Argives, 
The  might  of  a  warrior  band;    screaming  forth 

in  their  anger 
The  din  of  a  mighty  war;   after  the  manner  of 

eagles, 
Which  (in  their  grief  for  their  young,  when  reft 

is  the  eyrie  of  nestlings,) 
Borne  on  the  oarage  of  wings  far  through  the 

dim  Empyrean 
Wheel  in  a  circling  flight  above  their  home  in 

the  mountains. 
But  when   some  divinity  hears — either  Pan  or 

Zeus  or  Apollo — 
The  shrill-voiced  wail  of  the  birds,  he  sends  the 

slow-footed  Fury, 
Because  of  the  air-guests'  woe,  to  scourge  the 

daring  transgressor. 
So  the  twin  children  of  Atreus,  great  Zeus  the 

patron  of  strangers, 
Sends  to  the  war  against  Paris ;    on  Greek  and 

Trojan  decreeing 


Many  limb-wearying  combats  for  the  sake  of  a 

woman  oft-courted, 
While  the  knee  shall  plough  in  the  dust,  and  the 

spear  in  the  onset  be  shivered. 
But  whatso  is,  then  it  is,  and  will  come  to  the 

issue  predestined, 
And  neither  by  moans  nor  tears  nor  the  pouring 

out  of  libations, 
Will  Agamemnon  atone  for  the  death  of  Iphige- 

neia. 
But  we  with  the  frame  of  age,  unhonored  in  heat 

of  the  warfare, 
Were  left  behind  in  our  homes  when  forth  the 

array  were  departing; 
Since  we  were  propping  on  staves  the  ebbing 

strength  that  was  childlike. 
For,  behold !  the  marrow  of  youth  that  springeth 

up  in  our  bosoms, 
Is  weak  with  the  flight  of  years,  and  gone  are  the 

days  of  Ares ; 
And  age  of  many  a  winter,  when  the  leaf  on  its 

tree  has  been  withered 
Presses  its  three-footed  path  with  a  trembling 

and  faltering  footstep, 
And  as  in  the  state  of  a  child,  it  flits  before  like 

a  dav-dream. 


23 


Love's  Palace 

I  have  builded  Love  a  palace 

Fair  and  tall ; 
Roses  twine  its  marble  pillars, 

Springbirds  call; 
And  throughout  its  sunlit  spaces, 

Statues  all 
Silver,  bronze,  or  golden,  tower ; 

Fountains  fall 
Like  the  echo  of  old  music  ; 

And  this  hall, 
Filled  with  Grecian  thought's  possessions, 

Holds  in  thrall 
Memories  sweet  of  youth  that  fled 

Its  ivied  wall. 

I  have  waited  many  a  springtide, 

Love  to  know ; 
Summer's  glory  hath  departed ; 

Winter's  snow, 
April's  smile  full  oft  hath  melted; 

Brooklet's  flow 
Mingled  with  the  fountain's  murmur; 

Soft  and  slow 
Many  an  autumn  sky  hath  faded ; 

And  although 
Tenderly  again  the  flowers 

Bud  and  blow, — 
In  my  waiting,  Love  hath  perished 

Long  ago ! 


24 


Easter  Anthem 

What  sound  is  that  which  wakes  the  gladsome 

morn, 

Exultant  strains  from  Judah's  hilltops  ringing  ? 
Ecstatic  notes  from  joy  ecstatic  born, 

A  ransomed  world,  a  ransomed  world  is  sing- 
ing! 

For  -with  sublimest  love, 
Christ  came  from  thrones  above; 
And  He  to  heal  our  mortal  sin, 
Received  Death's  wound  His  heart  within, 

Yet  Victor  rose  from  Hell! 
And  Death  is  dead  and  Life  is  lord, — 
Hail,  hail  to  the  Immortal  Word ! 

Let  Earth's  loud  paeans  swell! 

'  CHORUS. 

Rejoice !    Rejoice ! 

For  burst  is  Death's  dark  prison ! 

Rejoice !    Rejoice ! 

Swell  your  triumphant  voice : 

The  Christ,  the  Christ  is  risen ! 

What  gleam   is  that  whereat  the   round  world 

thrills, 

His  glorious,  triumphal  car  adorning? 
Lo!    where  His  steeds  have  spurned  the  orient 

hills, 

Breaks  showered  light  on  dun-rolled  clouds  of 
morning ! 


Now  He  who  walked  the  earth 
In  guise  of  lowliest  birth, 
Is  crowned  the  royal  King  of  Kings, 
For  Whom  the  spacious  Heaven  rings ; 

And  they  of  low  degree 
With  joy  of  joy  His  coming  greet, 
Who  hurls  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 
And  bids  the  slave  be  free. 

CHORUS. 

Rejoice!    Rejoice! 

For  burst  is  Hell's  dread  prison ! 

Rejoice!    Rejoice! 

Swell  your  triumphant  voice, 

For  Christ,  our  Lord,  is  risen ! 

Christ   God,   for  Thee  the   sun-browed   nations 

wait, 

Who  hail  Thy  name  and  own  Thy  reign  for- 
ever! 

O  Thou,  who  flungest  wide  the  sapphire  gate 
Of  that  new  world,  where  Life  and  Love  part 
never ! 

Thine  awful  power  appalls, 
And  splendor  dread  enthralls ; 
Yet  from  the  glory  of  Thy  face, 
There  beams  an  all-redeeming  grace, 
That  lightens  woe's  dark  fen ; 
And  'neath  Thy  sway,  divinely  mild, 
Glads  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Chaos  wild, 
And  Eden  blooms  again ! 

26 


CHORUS. 


Rejoice!     Rejoice! 

For  burst  is  Sin's  foul  prison ! 

Rejoice!    Rejoice! 

Swell  the  triumphant  voice, 

That  Christ,  our  God,  is  risen ! 


Love  Imprisoned 

Love  offended  me  one  day 
With  his  roguish,  teasing  play, 
So  I  took  the  culprit  fair 
And  despite  his  tearful  prayer, 
In  a  dungeon  cold  and  bare 
Of  my  heart  immured  him. 

Round  his  prison  door  I  placed 
Pride  and  Anger,  dragon-faced, 
Warned  them  not  to  heed  his  moan, 
Not  to  list  sweet  pity's  tone, 
But  to  leave  him  there  alone 
Till  his  sorrow  cured  him. 

Then  I  sternly  went  away ; 
But  eftsoons  his  laughter  gay 
On  my  soul  like  music  fell, 
For  his  gaolers  'neath  his  spell 
Were  his  humble  slaves,  and — well, 
He  ruled  all  the  citadel ! 

27 


The  Charms  of  Rural  Life 

(Horace,  Epod.  I,  2.) 

Blest  is  the  man,  from  trade  apart, 
Whose  life,  amid  the  rural  scene, 
Recalls  an  elder  age  serene 

And  shuns  the  harvest  of  the  mart. 

Not  brazen  trump  of  war's  alarm, 
Nor  ocean's  terrors  that  appall, 
Nor  forum's  din,  nor  splendor's  hall 

Can  do  his  love  of  nature  harm. 

He  weds  ripe  scions  of  the  vine 

To  poplars  tall,  with  trellised  folds ; 
Or  in  a  vale  remote  beholds 

His  wand'ring  herds  of  lowing  kine. 

Dead  stems  with  sickle  keen  he  clears 
And  makes  his  fertile  graftings  sure ; 
Or  cleanly  jars  with  honey  pure 

He  stores,  or  tender  sheep  he  shears. 

When  Autumn  lifts  from  his  domain 
A  brow  with  mellow  fruitage  crowned, 
Then  in  the  pear  his  joys  abound, 

Or  in  the  grape  of  purple  stain. 

With  fruits  like  these,  Priapus,  thee 
And  sire  Silvanus,  he  rewards ; 
Or  loves  to  lie  on  grassy  swards 

Or  'neath  some  patriarchal  tree. 


Hard  by,  the  stream  in  channels  deep 

Glides  on ;  the  woods  with  notes  resound ; 
And  plashing  fountains  heard  around 

Diffuse  the  spell  of  gentle  sleep. 

But  when  the  year  with  thunder's  roar 
Collects  the  wintry  rain  and  snow, 
With  many  a  hound  he  hastes  to  go 

To  drive  and  trap  the  savage  boar. 

To  catch  the  greedy  thrush  he  tries 
His  wide-looped  meshes  not  in  vain ; 
The  timid  hare,  the  stranger  crane 

His  booty  are,  a  pleasant  prize. 

Ah,  who  amid  such  joys  would  fear 
Love's  all-distracting,  anxious  care? 
Or,  should  a  wife,  chaste  matron,  share 

His  home  and  darling  children  rear, 

Like  Sabine  dame,  or  sun-browned  spouse 
Of  the  Apulian  farmer  bold, 
She  heaps  the  hearth  with  fagots  old, 

And  makes  her  lord  a  cheerful  house. 

Or  if,  when  to  their  stanchions  brought, 
To  milk  the  cattle  is  her  task, 
Or  this  year's  vintage  from  its  flask 

She  brings,  and  spreads  a  feast  unbought — 

Not  dainties  from  the  Lucrine  lake, 
Nor  yet  the  turbot,  nor  the  scar, 
Nor  what  the  Eastern  waves  afar 

Bear  hither  in  their  stormy  wake, 

29 


No,  not  the  fowl  of  Af ric's  land, 
Nor  moor-hen  of  Ionic  race, 
Could  have  of  flavor  sweeter  grace 

Than  olives  ready  to  the  hand. 

Not  less  a  pleasure  to  my  heart 

The  red-brown  dock  that  loves  the  mead, 
Or  mallows  which  from  marshy  reed 

The  lively  glow  of  health  impart. 

The  vernal  days  bring  their  delight, 
In  offered  lamb,  or  rescued  kid, 
For  him  who  views — these  joys  amid — 

His  flocks  returning  at  the  night ; 

Or  sees  his  oxen  homeward  bring, 
With  weary  neck,  the  heavy  share, 
And  finds  a  happy  circle  there 

About  the  ingle's  blazing  ring. 

L'ENVOI. 

Thus  Alphius,  man  of  gainful  store, 
Whose  heart  on  rural  charms  intent, 
All  profits  on  the  Ides  forewent, 

Yet  on  the  Kalends  yearned  for  more. 


To  Milton's  Daughters 

Oh,  while  we  praise  your  father,  we  love  you, 
Gentle  and  patient  girls,  who  bravely  knew, — 
The  blind  old  man,  in  all  his  moods,  rang  true ! 


The  Gates  of  Dreams 


'   ev 

(Od.  IV,  808-9-) 

Where  memory's  silver  ripples  flow 
O'er  golden  sands  of  recollection; 
Where  fairy  shapes  in  visions  glow, 
Where  murmuring  voices  sweet  and  low, 
Float  from  the  realms  of  long  ago, 

And  lend  the  scene  perfection; 
In  borderlands  of  pure  delight, 
Of  rainbow  day  and  sapphire  night, 
Imagination's  rosy  beams 
Fall  on  the  golden  gates  of  dreams. 


A  Salutation 

Sweet  friend,  across  the  purple  years 

Of  life's  dissolving  dream, 
All  shining  through  a  mist  of  tears 

The  stars  of  friendship  gleam. 

In  splendor's  sun  their  light  is  lost, 

In  trouble's  night  their  ray 
Shines  on  Hope's  bark  rough  tempest  toss'd, 

With  light  more  sweet  than  day. 

So  where  my  ship  hath  onward  sped 

Toward  prosperous  lands  afar, 
Thy  friendship  through  the  storm  hath  led 

A  pure  and  guiding  star. 

31 


Fifty  Lines  from  Homer 

(Iliad,  1-50.) 

Achilles'  fateful  wrath,  oh  goddess,  sing, 
Which  on  the  Greeks  unnumbered  woes  en- 
tailed, 

And  sent  to  hades'  realm  before  their  time 
The  mighty  souls  of  heroes,  and  their  forms 
Gave  up  a  prey  to  dogs  and  carrion  birds. 
And  thus  his  purpose  mighty  Jove  fulfilled, 
What  time  had  parted  first  in  bitter  wrath, 
Divine  Achilles  and  the  king  of  men. 

Say  what  one  of  the  gods,  together  brought 
In  sullen  fury,  the  great  chiefs  to  strive  ? 
The  child  of  Leto  and  the  son  of  Jove. 
For  angered  'gainst  the  king,  he  through  the 

camp 

Broadcast  a  deadly  pestilence  sent  down 
Whereby  the  people  perished ;  this  because 
Chryses,  his  priest,  by  Atreus'  son  was  scorned, 
For  Chryses  to  the  Grecian  fleet  had  come 
With  countless  meed,  his  daughter  to  release, 
And  on  a  golden  scepter  in  his  hands 
He  bore  the  fillet  of  the  Archer  King. 
With  lowly  mien,  the  assembled  strength  of 

Greece 
He   then   addressed,    but   chief   preferred   his 

prayer 

To  Atreus'  sons,  the  monarchs  of  the  host : 
'Great    sons    of    Atreus,    and    ye    well-mailed 

Greeks, 

32 


May  the  Olympian  dwellers  grant  to  you 
To  sack  old  Priam's  city  and  return 
In  safety  homeward,  to  your  native  land. 
But  oh,  to  me  my  child  belov'd  release ; 
Accept  this  shining  ransom,  and  revere 
Apollo,  mighty  archer,  son  of  Jove." 
Then  all  the  other  Greeks  approval  cheered, 
The  reverend  sire  to  honor  and  receive 
The  gift  resplendent,  but  not  so  it  pleased 
The  soul  of  Agamemnon,  Atreus'  son ; 
Sternly  rebuking,  he  the  priest  dismissed, 
With  words  insulting  and  a  grievous  threat : 

"Here  at  the  graceful-curving  vessel's  side, 
Let  me  not  find  thee  lingering  now,  old  man, 
Nor  e'er  returning  hither,  lest  thou  prove 
Of  no  avail  to  shield  thee  from  my  wrath, 
The  scepter  and  the  fillet  of  thy  god. 
Her  I  will  not  restore,  until  old  age, 
Within  my  hall  at  Argos  far  away, 
Shall  find  her  active  at  the  busy  loom, 
And  sharer  of  my  bed.    Now  hence  depart, 
And  that  thou  safer  go,  provoke  me  not." 

Such    words    he    spake;     with    awe    the    sire 

obeyed ; 

Along  the  hoarse-resounding  ocean's  shore, 
He  took  his  silent  way,  till  far  removed 
From   hostile  harm,    he   poured    his    soul    in 

prayer, 

To  king  Apollo,  fair  Latona's  son : 
"Lord  of  the  silver  bow,  whose  kingly  power, 
Chrysa  surrounds  and  Cilia's  sacred  shrine, 


And  over  Tenedos  wide  empire  holds, — 
O  Sminthian  Apollo,  hear  my  moan ! 
If  e'er  a  source  of  pleasure  in  thy  sight 
I've  reared  a  stately  temple,  and  to  thee 
Burned  the  rich  thighs  of  bulls  and  perfect 

goats, 

Accomplish  this  request ;  let  now  the  Greeks 
Beneath  thy  deadly  bolts  atone  my  tears." 

Such  prayer  he  made,  and  him  Apollo  heard, 
And  from  Olympus'  battlements  came  down 
With  bow  and  ample  quiver  at  his  back ; 
Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  wrathful  god 
Fierce  clanged  the  arrows  as  he  onward  moved. 
Sullen  as  night  he  came ;  then  from  the  ships 
Standing  at  distance,  he  a  shaft  discharged, 
And  dire  and  awful  twanged  the  silver  bow. 


To  One  Dreading  Old  Age 

What  though  it  be  that  Time  with  shining  hand 
Shall  lay  his  silver  radiance  on  thy  brow? 
Thy  soul  is  beautiful  within  and  grows  not  old. 

What  though  for  thee  swift  come  the  dreamful 

years  ? 

All  thine  are  laughing  angels,  lily-crowned, 
And  each  new  guest  but  swells  the  joyous  com- 
pany. 

34 


The  Wish 

Long  I  wished  thee,  long  I  sought  thee, 

Long  I  loved  thee,  friend  divine ! 
And  though  never,  now,  forever 

Shall  I  taste  love's  wine, — 
Still  I  send  thee,  to  attend  thee, 

This  last  wish  of  mine: 
All  thy  griefs  fall  to  my  portion, 

All  my  joys  to  thine ! 


In  Tempe's  Vale 

In  Tempe's  vale,  a-long  ago, 

Sweet  love  and  I  were  singing, 
And  all  the  hours  swift  and  slow, 
In  dappled  dawn  or  evening  glow, 
Their  way  of  joy  were  winging. 

But  what  do  memories  avail, 

Wan  ghosts  of  our  warm  dreaming, — 
When  once  the  stars  of  youth  are  pale, 
When  olden  pulses  faint  and  fail, 

And  life  is  but  a  seeming ! 

O  long  ago !    O  Tempe's  bowers, 
For  which  my  soul  is  yearning, 
Across  thy  honey-laden  flowers, 
For  me  no  more  the  vanished  hours 
Breathe  hope  of  a  returning. 

35 


Palm  Sunday 

Dear  Lord,  out  of  innumerable  ills, 

Thy  grace  hath  led  my  feeble  steps  and  slow, 
Vouchsafed  to  me  Thy  loveliness  to  show, 

And  given  that  peace,  unpriced,  whose  gladness 
thrills 

My  spirit,  so  that  all  its  essence  wills 
The  world  no  more,  but  only  Thee,  to  know : 
Before  Thy  feet  of  glory,  palms  I  strow, 

While  my  rapt  heart  with  high  Hosanna  fills. 

To-day  Jerusalem  hails  Thee  divine, 

Yet  storm  of  death  awaits  to  rend  the  calm ! 

What,  then,  if  grief  and  bitterness  like  Thine 
To  me  shall  come,  I  shall  not  lack  this  balm, — 

To  know,  that  if  Thy  way  of  peace  be  mine, 
The  amaranth  is  sweeter  than  the  palm ! 


My  Purchase 

I  bought  a  little  bird  of  black  and  red, 
From  a  street  vendor  sitting  in  the  shade ; 

And  all  my  friends  laughed  heartily,  and  said 
That  I,  by  far,  too  much  for  it  had  paid. 

Next  day  it  died ;  and  more  they  laughed  thereat ; 

Yet  while  I  sorrowed  for  it,  I  could  say, 
There  are  more  foolish  purchases  than  that 

Which  lightened  up  of  life  a  summer  day. 


Joseph  O'Connor 

Thou  gentle  man,  and  oh,  thou  wert  a  man ! 
It  is  the  very  sadness  of  this  earth, 
That  one  who  had  such  perfectness  of  worth, 

Should  pass  beyond,  in  God's  all-knowing  plan. 

None  knew  thee  but  to  reverence  thy  soul, 
Thy  kindly  heart  and  nature  without  stain ; 
How  beautiful  it  is,  a  life  so  plain 

That  God  can  place  approval  on  the  whole. 


Chimborazo 

Lord  of  the  Hills,  thou  mountain  king  of  kings, 
Old  Emperor  of  immemorial  days, 
In  primal  silence,  thou  with  placid  gaze 

Hast  seen  Creation's  years  on  glinting  wings. 

Age  after  age, — vain,  insubstantial  things, — 
Flee  by  thee  like  the  mists  thy  vales  upraise ; 
But  thou  remainest  in  eternal  ways, 

Though  thunders  roar,  and  lightning  'round  thee 
clings. 

Yet  better  than  thy  pulseless  majesty, 

One  little  hour  wherein  man's  soul  hath  trod 

The  heights  of  noble  action !    Thou  art  free 
To  keep  insentient  glory ;   I,  poor  clod, — 

Yet  thy  superior, — hold  no  awe  of  thee, 
Thou  but  a  symbol,  I  a  son  of  God! 

QUITO,  March  20,  1893. 

87 


In  Arcady 

I  wandered  in  Arcadia's  dreamful  realm, 
When  dew  of  morning  lay  upon  the  world, 
And  in  it  every  floweret  was  empearled 
By  that  bright  sun  of  promise  whose  sweet  rays 
Lightened  with  life  of  love  and  beauty  all  my 
days. 

There  rippling  rills  the  daisies  overwhelm, 
That  skirt  the  shores  of  the  enameled  mead ; 
There  Pan  blew  music  from  his  oaten  reed, 
And  all  the  chorus  of  the  nymphs  and  fauns 
Gleamed  in  the  mazy  dance  on  those  enchanted 
lawns. 

Adown  the  joyous  pathway  of  that  past 
A  glory  fell,  that  filled  the  hours  with  pride ; 
For   lo!    one  came  more   fair  than  Tithon's 

bride, 

And  her  white  brow  was  love's  imperial  shrine, 
And  nameless  grace  was  blent  in  face  and  form 
divine. 

Her  witching  words  an  echoing  cadence  cast, 
Blown  from  the  harp  ^Eolian  of  the  soul 
To  chords  of  mine  that  owned  her  sweet  con- 
trol, 

In  that  auroral  prime ;  and  when  she  smiled, 
Lilies   and   maribelles   bloomed   forth   upon   the 
wild. 


Yet  like  a  river  slipping  'neath  the  hand, 
These  visions  of  a  fair  dissolving  view 
Elapse,  nor  will  they  evermore  be  true, 
Till  memory,  the  enchanter,  lifts  the  screen, 
And  swiftly  backward  glide  the  glittering  years 
between. 

Life  is  the  thinker's  thought :  then,  golden  land 
Where  love  hung  on  the  rosy  lips  of  youth, 
They  who  have  quaffed  thy  magic  wells   of 
truth, 

Still  by  thy  singing  streams  will  aye  sojourn. 

Return,  Arcadian  days !    Arcadian  hours,  return  ! 


To  a  Lady 

'Tis  but  in  happy  hours  we  live, — 

Those  moments  all  too  flying, 
While  time  that  slips  through  sorrow's  sieve, 

Is  measure  of  our  dying ; 
Then  praise  to  pleasure  let  us  give, 

Since  joy  is  death-defying. 

Sweet  friend,  thy  beauty  lent  a  charm, 

Thy  gentleness  a  power, 
To  breathe  a  calm  o'er  care's  alarm, 

To  rainbow-arch  the  shower, 
And  grief,  life's  enemy,  disarm 

For  one  ideal  hour. 


Goddesses 

I,  too,  have  walked  with  goddesses,  and  known 
The  glancing  tread  of  their  Olympian  feet ; 
Have   dreamed   in   awe  before  the  splendors 
sweet 

Of  eyes  that  with  immortal  beauty  shone ; 

Have  worshipped  them  in  ways  devout,  alone, 
And  at  their  shrines  rose-garlanded,  secrete, 
My  soul's  dear  homage  laid  in  gift  complete, — 

Yea,    yielded    them    life's    sceptre,    crown    and 
throne ! 

Yet,  more  than  bitterness  of  death,  to  find 
These  forms  of  beauty,  lovelier  than  the  day, 

Not  owning  essence  with  the  ethereal  mind, 
But  of  brute,  sordid  selfishness  the  prey. 

Ah,  who,  'mid  disenchantments  so  unkind, 
Can  boast  a  goddess  fashioned  not  of  clay  ? 


To  An  Easter  Violet 

What  subtle  solace  doth  distil 
From  thy  dew-spray,  O  violet ! 

Why  doth  thy  perfume  gently  fill 

My  soul  with  peace  that  lulls  regret? 

Thy  message  soothes  the  sting  of  death, — 
Yea,  love  greets  love  across  the  tomb, 

And  mingled  with  thine  Easter  breath, 
Past  sorrows  into  fragrance  bloom. 

40 


To  a  Flower 

GIVEN  BY  A  SOUTHERN  GIRL. 

A  dewy  violet,  sweet  as  youth, 
She  gave  with  winsome  witchery 
And  said,  "A  pansy  let  it  be!" 
Alas,  'twas  no  heart's-ease  to  me, 

For  then  I  knew  in  very  truth 
The  North  was  "slave,"  the  South  was  "free" 


When  Herrick  Sang 

RONDEAU. 

When  Herrick  sang,  the  skies  were  blue 
And  flowers  wore  a  lovelier  hue, 
Nor  was  affection  then  a  tale 
Like  down  of  thistle  on  the  gale, 
For  swains  and  maidens  all  were  true. 

Each  haply  did  a  path  pursue 
Where  nature's  beauties  sprang  to  view ; 
Nor  did  life's  fragrance  ever  fail, 
When  Herrick  sang. 

Quaint  bard  of  love,  to  him  are  due 
The  thanks  that  breathe  the  ages  through ; 
For  roses  red  and  lilies  pale, 
And  all  the  blooms  that  scent  the  dale, 
To  sweet  and  sweeter  perfume  grew, 
When  Herrick  sang. 

41 


Friends  After-wise 

Some  friends  there  are  who  measure  out 

By  the  apothecary's  scales, 
In  parts  exact  their  trust  or  doubt 

As  one  they  know  succeeds  or  fails. 

The  more  he  proves  himself,  the  more 
He  finds  himself  on  their  probation, 

And  seldom  from  their  niggard  store 
Gets  aught  but  frosty  commendation. 

They  pause  in  giving  what  his  foes 

At  once  and  cheerfully  concede; 
And  while  his  struggle  lonely  goes, 

Their  criticism  is  his  meed. 

Their  ears  are  wide  to  hearken  blame, 

Their  minds  judicial  to  his  worth, 
And  while  they  spread  each  stranger's  fame, 

Their  friend  they  give  but  friendship's  dearth. 

But  when,  at  last,  the  battle  o'er, 
He  stands,  a  victor,  laurel-crowned, 

They  wake  to  virtues  which,  before, 
Their  sight  contracted  never  found. 

Their  greetings  take  a  genial  glow, 

They  see  in  him  a  hero  grown, — 
Poor  fools,  they  do  not  seem  to  know 

Their  after-wisdom  is  a  stone. 

42 


The  bread  he  asked,  the  world  has  given, 
Not  they  have  spread  his  triumph  feast ; 

On  weary  way  that  he  has  striven, 
Their  inspiration  has  been  least. 

Too  late  they  play  a  friendly  part, 
His  old  affection  they  win  never ; 

And  if  he  opens  wide  his  heart, 
'Tis  one  view,  ere  it  shuts  forever. 


Wellington 

"Not  only  that  thy  puissant  arm  could  bind 
The  tyrant  of  a  world." 

— Lord  Beaconsfield's  Sonnet. 

Not  thine,  nor  Europe's  arm  was  it,  could  bind 
The  Forest  Lion  or  subdue  his  rage; 
Each  minute  of  his  years  had  been  an  age, 

And  every  thought  an  epoch ;   flesh,  resigned, 

Bore  long  the  labors  of  that  Titan  mind, 
Then  Nature,  in  mortality's  last  stage, 
Even  as  Russian  Winter,  put  a  gauge 

To  what  had  else  been  Empire  unconfmed. 

To  say  that  thou  his  conqueror  wast  or  art, 
Is  much  as  though  a  mountain  climber  stood 

On  some  amort  volcano's  crater  thin, 
And  at  the  giant's  last  convulsive  start, 

A  pebble  hurled  or  some  slight  wisp  of  wood, 
And  said:    "Behold!    I  crushed  the  summit 
in!" 


Lexington 

Red  broke  the  sun  of  Freedom's  morn, 
Red  fell  the  blows  of  England's  hate 
With  savage  might  upon  the  patriot  bands 
Whose  blood  made  red  the  fields  of  Lexington ! 

Yet  from  that  seed  Cadmean  sprung 

Host  after  host  of  armed  men, 

Who  thronging  up  the  heights  where  Freedom 

led, 
Placed  her  proud  standards  on  eternity. 


Fate's  Enmity 

Fate,  monster  horrible  and  deform, 
With  goblin  jaws  my  birth  attended ; 

My  mother's  love  preserved  me  then, — 
That  love  which  all  my  life  befriended ! 

And  from  that  day  to  manhood's  prime, 
The  demon's  plots  and  malice  cruel 

Have  made  existence  'gainst  his  hate, 
One  bitter,  long,  continuous  duel. 

But  now,  at  length,  I  laugh  to  scorn 
The  beaten  monster's  late  affection, 

And  chain  him  to  my  chariot  wheels, 
In  symbol  of  his  sheer  subjection. 

44 


Deception 

Her  face  was  sweeter  than  the  dreams  of  Ind, 
Her  voice  more  dear  than  the  Ionian  lute, 

And  as  she  pleaded,  it  seemed  I  who  sinned, 
Whose  heart  with  dumb  uncertainty  was  mute. 

Then  from  her  glory  turned  I,  though  in  ruth, 
While  this  fixed  purpose  walled  my  soul  about, 

Better  sojourn  in  deepest  Hell  with  Truth 
Than  bide  in  Eden  with  the  serpent  Doubt. 


The  Mirth  of  the  Gods 

The  laughter  of  the  gods  is  clear 

And  sweet,  to  those  who  do  not  know 
How,  underneath  its  limpid  flow, 

Lurk  envy,  hatred,  hope  and  fear. 


To  a  Lily  of  the  Valley 

(Poeta  Loquitur.) 

When  swift  a  season's  sun  grows  old, 
This  human  blossom  shall  grow  cold, — 
Thy  beauties  vanish  from  the  wold ; 

But  on  thy  brow 

The  smile  of  God  serene  shall  lie, 
And  thou  shalt  sinless  pass,  but  I, — 
Ah  me,  I  weep  I  cannot  die 

As  pure  as  thou ! 

45 


The  Lonesome  Valley 

I've  a  little  sweetheart  in  Virginia, 
In  Virginia, 

In  Virginia, 

I've  a  little  sweetheart  in  Virginia, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley, 

Let  me  play  my  guitar  at  thy  window, 
At  thy  window, 

At  thy  window, 

Let  me  play  my  guitar  at  thy  window, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

Fairy-like  is  the  beauty  of  the  evening, 
Of  the  evening, 

Of  the  evening, 

Fairy-like  is  the  beauty  of  the  evening, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

Here  the  sweetness  of  the  world  hath  all  been 
gathered, 

All  been  gathered, 

All  been  gathered, 
Here  the  sweetness  of  the  world  hath  all  been 

gathered, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

The  roses  are  in  passion  with  the  moonbeams, 
With  the  moonbeams, 

With  the  moonbeams, 

The  roses  are  in  passion  with  the  moonbeams, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

46 


And1  soft  is  the  breath  of  the  magnolia, 
The  magnolia, 

The  magnolia, 

0  soft  is  the  breath  of  the  magnolia, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

They  told  me  that  my  sweetheart  would  deceive 
me, 

Would  deceive  me, 

Would  deceive  me, 
They  told  me  that  my  sweetheart  would  deceive 

me, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

1  shall  never  love  thee  more,  O  my  sweetheart, 

O  my  sweetheart, 

O  my  sweetheart, 

I  shall  never  love  thee  more,  O  my  sweetheart, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

From  thy  loveliness  how  bitter  is  the  parting, 
Is  the  parting, 

Is  the  parting, 

From  thy  loveliness  how  bitter  is  the  parting, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

All  thy  gentleness  of  nature  I'll  remember, 
I'll  remember, 

I'll  remember, 

All  thy  gentleness  of  nature  I'll  remember, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 

47 


Fare  thee  well,  then,  my  sweetheart  of  Virginia, 
Of  Virginia, 

Of  Virginia, 

Fare  thee  well,  then,  my  sweetheart  of  Virginia, 
Way  down  in  the  Lonesome  Valley. 


[  An  old  Virginia  melody.  The  first,  second  and  seventh 
stanzas,  with  the  words  slightly  changed,  are  the  old  song.  The 
other  stanzas  I  have  added.— R.  B.  M.] 


Ozymandias 

Shelley,  to  show  that  of  all  human  things 
Pride  is  the  emptiest,  recounts  that  where 
Old  Nilus  dreams,  a  Pharaoh  builded  there 
His  statue,  whose  long  ruined  base  still  flings  : 
"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  King  of  Kings: 

Gaze  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair!" 
While  o'er  the  fragments,   which  the  sands 

leave  bare, 
The  desert  wind  a  mocking  requiem  sings. 

And  yet,  methinks,  this  King  was  wise  to  render 
Unto  himself  such  heritage  of  glory. 

What  matters  now  to  him,  if  none  rehearse 
His  wars,  his  loves,  his  triumph  and  his  splen- 
dor, 

Or  anything  that  graced  his  olden  story, — 
He  lives  immortal  still  in  Shelley's  verse. 


My  Heart  Will  Know 

Some  day,  when  skies  are  blue, 
And  gentle  winds  bend  violets  and  rue, 

Perchance  to  that  lone  spot 

Where  I  shall  lie  forgot, 

She  whom  I  loved  will  come  to  take  a  moment's 
view. 

In  sunset's  afterglow; 
Or  when  the  splendors  of  noon's  triumph  show; 

Or  in  the  rosy  dawn, 

O'er  the  empurpled  lawn, — 
No  matter  when  she  comes,  my  silent  heart  will 
know. 


On  a  Portrait  of  a  Maid 

Beauty  and  youth  are  thine,  a  sweet  estate, 
A  flower-like  kingdom  worthy  of  its  queen, 

And  love  thereto  is  the  enchanted  gate, 
But  who  shall  win  it,  sovereign  serene? 


The  Voyagers 

And  what  a  winsome  picture  thou  didst  make, 

Upon  the  little,  serviceable  beast ; 
And  then  at  the  albergos,  free  from  care, 

The  joy  that  comes  when  happy  travelers  feast ! 


Right  Reverend  Stephen  Vincent  Ryan 

ON   HIS   SILVER   JUBILEE. 
I. 

Prelate  and  priest,  man,  citizen,  and  friend, 
In  all  approved, — we  hail  thy  Jubilee ! 
Thy  years  like  silver  trumpets  clear  and  free, 

The  grace  and  glory  of  their  music  blend ; 

And  all  the  stately  memories  that  attend 
Attune  their  voices  to  the  melody 
Of  thy  high  truth,  unstained  sincerity, 

Thy  gentle  worth  and  kindness  without  end. 

Now  in  the  argent  luster  of  thy  days, 

Men  bring  the  tribute  of  their  unbought  love, 

Give  thee  the  meed  of  that  unstinted  praise 
Which  comes  to  those  whose  souls,  like  Jor- 
dan's dove, 

The  spirit  of  God  diffuse  in  peaceful  ways, 
A  light  and  benediction  from  above. 

ii. 

Live  thou,  and  flourish !     For  thy  heart  is  wide, 
Liberal  thy  nature  and  thy  purpose  just; 
Humanity's  great  mission  is  thy  trust, 

Yea,  thy  one  sacred  thought,  the  which  beside 

No  lesser,  narrower,  impulse  can  abide ; 

For  in  thy  kindly  glance  such  motives  must 
Sink  back  again  into  their  primal  dust, 

And  faith  soar  up,  unto  no  earth  allied. 

50 


Wear,  then,  the  laurels  of  thy  Jubilee, 

A  woven  chaplet  from  all  kinds  and  creeds ; 

Count  thyself  happy,  also,  for  to  thee 
Along  that  life  to  higher  life  that  leads, 

It  hath  been  granted  life's  best  fruit  to  see, 
Of  holy  thoughts  made  real  by  holy  deeds. 

November  8,  1893. 


Birthday  Greeting  to  a  Young  Girl 

Spring's  grace  and  youth 

And  rainbow  truth 
The  morning  of  thy  life  extol ! 

For  what  are  years 

But  smiles  and  tears, 
That  mellow  harvests  of  the  soul  ? 


By  stream  and  glade 

The  hours  fade, 
But  thou  shalt  keep  the  better  part ; 

Though  seasons  range, 

Time  cannot  change 
The  springtime  beauty  of  thy  heart. 


51 


The  Sanity  of  Genius 

I  talked  with  one  who  made  of  life  "success" 
Along  convention's  smooth  and  hedge-trimmed 

road ; 

Type  of  that  class  who  bear  but  their  own  load, 
And  "shrewdly"  shun  the  fiery  storm  and  stress, 
When  hearts  and  souls  unselfish  forward  press, 
To  mitigate  Oppression's  stinging  goad ; 
"Reformers"  he  called  "geniuses" ;   but  showed 
That  "genius"  is  a  kind  of  "foolishness." 

Well,  when  I  thought  how  soon  he  would  be 

cold; 

How  soon  forgotten ;   and,  in  how  few  years 
His  idiot  heirs  would  spend  his  hoardings 

vain, 

While  "the  eccentrics"  would  in  ways  untold 
Make  ever  less  the  sum  of  human  tears, — 
It  seemed  to  me,  genius  alone  is  sane!- 


Sweetly  Laughing  Lalage 

(Horace,  Od.  I,  22.) 

"Dulce  ridentem  Lalagen  amabo, 
Dulce  loquentem." 

Lucy  laughs,  and  says  she  loves  me ; 

I  reply  with  laugh, 
That  the  girl  who  laughs  and  loves  me, 

Loves  me  only  half. 


James  G.  Elaine 

Now  broken  is  the  golden  bowl, 

And  loos' d  the  silver  cord, 
And  fled  for  aye  the  royal  soul 

Whom  all  our  souls  adored, — 
The  knightly  man  of  knightly  men, 

The  prince  among  his  peers : 
We  shall  not  see  his  like  again 

In  half  a  thousand  years. 

GUARANDA,  Ecuador,  January  30,  1893. 


General  Gordon 

Soldier  of  Fortune,  yet  in  fortune  poor, 

But  rich  in  glory's  immortality, 

And  richer  in  thy  soul's  nobility 
That  scorned  the  prizes  lesser  men  allure, — 
'Twas  thine,  long  years,  with  patience  to  endure 

Neglect  and  sneer  of  those  not  fit  to  be 

The  lackeys  of  a  spirit  like  to  thee, 
High-hearted  hero,  in  high  faith  secure. 

To  hold  the  balance  true  of  right  and  wrong, 
Censure  or  praise  swayed  not  thy  just  intent; 

Thy  lion-fronted  courage  swept  along 

On  wider  ways  than  intrigue's  mean  extent ; 

And  though  these  virtues  led  thee  to  thy  doom, 

A  pillar'd  light  to  men  shines  from  Khartoum. 


Joy  and  Pain 

(Neumann  s  "Das  fferz.") 

The  heart  hath  chambers  twain, 

Where  dwelling 
Are  tenants,  Joy  and  Pain. 

If  Joy  awake  in  one, 

Then  slumbers 
Pain,  quiet  in  its  own. 

O  Joy,  precaution  take! 

Speak  gently, 
Lest  Woe  should  else  awake. 


When  Love  Dies 

"Well,  this  clay-cold  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it  and  what  comes  next  ? 
Is  it  God?" 

— R.  Browning. 

When  Love  dies, 
What  has  God  to  offer  ? 
What  has  Time  to  proffer? 

Nature  lies ! 

Change  awaits? 
Is  there  balm  where  change  is  ? 
Wide  the  spirit  ranges, 

Questioning  fates. 

54 


What  atones 

For  the  dream  that's  banished, 
If  the  Truth,  too,  vanished 

With  its  moans? 

Break  to  dust 
Glorified  ideal! 
Is  there  in  the  real 

Hope  or  trust? 

Doubt  abides ! 
Nevermore  contentment ; 
Memory's  resentment 

Yearning  chides. 

What  heart-leaven 
Maketh  whole  where  scathe  is  ? 
If  there  be  where  faith  is, 

That  is  heaven ! 


The  Critics  of  Bonaparte 

WThen  you  have  settled  to  your  satisfaction, 
That  he  was  neither  noble,  wise,  nor  great, 
Remember  this,  ye  sticks  of  stupefaction : 
Freedom,  for  his  iconoclastic  action, 
His  name  a  myriad  years  will  celebrate ! 


55 


The  Roseleaf  and  the  Rock 

Rock  that  jutteth  in  the  river 
Speaketh  not,  but  dreameth  ever. 

Where  the  eddies  swirled  and  shifted 
Once  a  roseleaf  lightly  drifted, 
Touched  the  rock  with  lip  of  sweetness, 
Filled  its  soul  with  life's  completeness ; 
And  the  rock  in  its  wild  fashion, 
With  its  centuries  of  passion, 
Yearned  to  keep  the  leaf  forever, 
There  beside  the  sunlit  river. 

Tenderly  the  dream  was  cherished, 
But  in  one  brief  hour  it  perished. 
Clot  of  sea-weed,  idly  glancing, 
Set  the  roseleaf s  spirit  dancing; 
Where  the  eddies  swirled  and  shifted, 
Off  to  its  new  love  it  drifted, 
And  adown  the  sunlit  river 
Floated,  disappeared  forever. 

And  the  rock  with  memories  teeming, 
Of  the  roseleaf  aye  is  dreaming, 
And  a  requiem  hereafter 
Is  the  water's  old-time  laughter. 


Less  the  pathos  fate  discloses, 

Had  the  rock  known  there  are  roses ! 

56 


To  One  Who  Loves  Italy 

WITH  A  HISTORY  OF  VENICE. 

In  afterwhiles,  when  thou  shalt  dwell 

Perchance  in  fair  Italian  lands, 
And  memory  weaves  its  magic  spell 

Where  Venice  in  her  beauty  stands, 
O  then,  from  out  the  vanished  maze 

Of  years,  let  recollection  tell 
The  tale  of  sweet  and  olden  days, 

And  one  who  loved  thee  well. 


Serenity 

Now  I  am  come  unto  the  outmost  bound, 
Nor  evermore  for  me  the  gentle  sun 
Will  smile  on  life's  sweet  ways,  for  I,  undone, 

Fare  forth  to  meet  hereafter ;   I  have  found 

Where   my   tall  bark  o'er   wandering  seas   has 

wound, 

The  sails  with  which  Hesperian  Isles  are  won, 
For  me  are  silken  dreams  the  Fates  have  spun 

And  cut,  at  last,  on  oceans  void  of  sound. 

So  go  I  now  unto  death's  polar  sea 

And  that  long  night  whence  cometh  no  bright 

ray; 

The  path  behind  is  closed,  but  even  so, 
With  steady  brow,  I'll  summon  victory; 
My  soul  is  firm  as  in  life's  fairer  day, — 
Kingly  to  pass,  though  I  alone  shall  know. 

57 


La  Belle  Bretonne 

Dear  Anne  of  Brittany  and  elder  France, 

True  saint  and  all  that  makes  a  woman  sweet; 
And  then  to  crown  a  loveliness  complete, — 

Thou  hast  of  France,  old-fashioned, fine  romance. 


On  a  Silhouette 

He's  not  so  very  good,  you  know, 

And  never  will  be  sainted. 
And  yet,  my  friend,  pray  do  not  laugh, 
When  I  assure  you,  he's  not  half 

So  black  as  he  is  painted  ! 


To  Her  in  Dreamless  Slumber 

Twine  lilies  in  her  hair, 
Strew  roses  at  her  feet, 

Fold  violets  in  her  hand ; 
For  never  maid  more  fair, 
For  never  maid  more  sweet, 
Bloomed  in  the  lotus  land. 

What  matters  now  to  me 
Beauty  of  earth  or  sky, 

Whisper  of  wind  or  wave? 
Heart  of  my  heart  was  she, 
My  soul,  my  dream,  my  sigh  ; 
Of  love,  the  queen  and  slave. 

58 


La  Fiorentina 

I  wandered  with  thee  once  through  Arno's  bow- 
ers, 

Slim  Florentine,  Madonna  of  my  dreams ; 

Nor  was  there  blossom  by  the  valleyed  streams 
Could  rival  thee,  thou  soul  of  summer  flowers ; 
The  skies  that  blended  with  Italian  hours, 

The  wonder  of  thy  beauty,  the  dark  gleams 

Of  eyes  that  melted  with  love's  perfect  beams, 
Made  all  of  heaven,  'neath  the  Tuscan  towers. 

And  in  old  gardens  graced  with  marbles  old, — 
The  stately  memories  of  thy  princely  line, — 

We  walked,  where  sunlight  fell  like  sifted  gold 
On  terraced  lawns,  in  autumn's  mood  divine; 

And  there  where  fountains  breathed  a  whispered 
melody, 

Was  consecration  of  my  soul  to  thee ! 

FLORENCE,  September  22,  1903. 


The  Rose  of  Love 

O  Rose,  O  Love,  I  give  to  thee 

The  rose  of  love's  eternity; 

Nor  any  rosebud  of  the  spring 

Hath  perfume  of  such  blossoming ; 

Then  guard  its  petals  tenderly, 

It  bloomed  for  thee,  it  blooms  for  thee. 


Aux  Heros  Sans  Gloire 

Hail  to  that  unsaluted  throng 
For  whom  no  memories  melt  in  song, 
Yet  from  the  silence  of  whose  deeds 
Godlike  an  influence  proceeds 
To  lift  the  truth  and  smite  the  wrong ! 

Unthrilled  by  triumph's  bugle  strain, 
They  hear  but  moan  of  bitter  pain 

In  that  obscurity  of  life, 

Wherein  they  wage  unequal  strife, 
And  scarce  a  doubtful  battle  gain. 

They  win  not  glories,  wrongs  they  bear, 
Yet  keep  their  honor  white  and  fair ; 
Their  souls  are  sacrificial  wine 
That  makes  of  life  a  thing  divine, — 
A  paradise  they  may  not  share. 

They  break  the  pathway  of  advance; 

They  scorn  tradition's  icy  glance; 
Yet  feel  their  generous  impulse  faint 
Beneath  the  walls  of  old  restraint, 

The  bastions  grim  of  circumstance. 

But  in  despite  of  fortune's  frown, 
They  wear  the  thorns  of  duty's  crown ; 
Unlaureled  meet  life's  cold  eclipse, 
And  die  with  "courage"  on  their  lips, 
And  faith  too  proud  to  be  cast  down. 


What  if  such  strugglers  leave  behind 
No  name,  the  wonder  of  mankind! 

To  mortals  what  is  glory's  breath? 

A  far-heard'  murmur  stilled  in  death, 
An  echo  dying  on  the  wind ! 

O  heroes  reft  of  fame's  caress, 
Weigh  not  the  world's  forgetfulness ! 
Though  with  but  tears  on  cliffs  of  time, 
You  bravely  trace  one  thought  sublime, 
God  will  not  view  your  labor  less. 


The  Choice 

Why  weariness,  distress  and  grief, 

And  why  disquiet  ever? 
Lives  he  not  best  who,  like  a  leaf, 

Toils  'gainst  the  current  never  ? 

Ay,  blest  is  he  whose  calm  of  life 
Portends  disquiet  never; 

But  surer  he,  who  braves  the  strife 
That  holds  a  peace  forever ! 


The  Sovereign  Love 

She  whom  forever  I  would  fain 
Adore,  nor  ever  from  her  part, 

Must  pass  the  icebergs  of  my  brain, 
To  win  the  tropics  of  my  heart. 

61 


Two  Epitaphs 

ON  DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

Here  lies  poor  Johnson ;   reader,  have  a  care ; 
Tread  lightly,  lest  you  rouse  a  sleeping  bear. 
Religious,  moral,  generous  and  humane 
He  was ;  but  self-sufficient,  rude  and  vain  ; 
Ill-bred  and  overbearing  in  dispute, 
A  scholar,  and  a  Christian,  and  a  brute. 
Would  you  know  all  his  wisdom  and  his  folly, 
His  actions,  sayings,  mirth  and  melancholy? 
Boswell  and  Thrale,  retailers  of  his  wit, 
Will    tell   you   how   he    wrote   and   talked   and 
coughed  and  spit. 

— Soame  Jenyns. 

ON   SOAME  JENYNS. 

Here  lies  poor  Jenyns,  whose  good  taste  and  wit 
In  Johnson  emphasized  the  "cough  and  spit," 
Held  cheap  the  sweetness  of  that  monarch  mind 
And  found  delight  in  mocking  at  the  rind ; 
Rude  was  the  Doctor,  yet  in  kindly  wise; 
In  Jenyns,  sooth,  the  case  is  otherwise ; 
For  he,  whom  Jenyns  rudely  calls  a  brute 
Is  all  that  makes  important  this  dispute. 
Well  had  it  been  for  Jenyns  if  his  art 
Supplied  such  lack  of  manners  with  such  heart. 


James  N.  Johnston 

The  fools  of  Shakespeare's  time  were  number- 
less, 

They  did  not  dream  that  giant  mind  was  there ; 
And  yet  the  age  had,  too,  a  race  of  men, 

For  that  they  called  the  great  Ben  Jonson  rare. 

We  are  not  fools.    We  know  our  James  is  rare, 
And  he  is  so,  because  his  ample  mind, 

In  this  the  age  of  unremorseful  gain, 

Still  cherishes  the  things  that  make  life  kind. 


Rudolph  W.  Wolffsohn 

Friend  of  my  heart,  from  out  the  silence  here 

Across  eternity  I  bid  thee  hail; 

Not  long  I  knew  thee,  but  I  proved  the  mail 
That  girt  thy  knightly  nature  and  the  spear 
Gleaming  that  charged   for   friendship   without 
fear; 

Not  thine  was  it  to  turn  with  questionings  pale 

At  hate's  envenomed  hint  or  slander's  tale, — 
Thou  steadfast  to  thy  colors  stoodist,  sincere! 

Thou  art  not  dead  nor  canst  thou  ever  die. 

Somewhere  thy  soul  dispenseth  mirth  and  light, 
Gladness  and  music ;  thou  wert  born  to  give 
In  sojourn  here  or  in  thy  distant  sky 

Beauty  of  heart  to  make  the  hours  more  bright 
And  memories  sweet  that  in  affection  live. 

63 


A  Vision  in  a  Dream 

I  heard  the  dreadful  winds  of  death 

Sweep  round  the  midnight  tombs, 
And  the  drear  voice  that  muttereth 

From  out  the  hollow  glooms : 
'Here  see  the  wreck  of  greater  powers, 

This  fate  before  thee  looms ; 
What  matter  now  life's  revelled  hours, 

Its  blossoms  and  its  blooms?" 

And  yet  I  smiled  amid  it  all, 

With  youth  and  glory  fled, 
And  felt  my  soul  grow  great  and  tall 

Surrounded  by  the  dead ; 
For  I  had  lived,  the  gift  divine, 

Earth's  beauty  and  delight 
With  all  their  sweetness  had  been  mine, 

Fond  prelude  to  the  night ! 


Youth  and  Glory 

Youth  and  Glory  came  together, 

Smiling,  hand  in  hand, 
All  the  dreams  of  all  the  ages 

Love-lit  all  the  land. 

Glory  stayed,  but  Youth  departed, 
End  of  life's  sweet  story! 

Reft  of  the  enchantments  olden, 
Glory  was  not  Glory. 

64 


Isabel 

Isabel 

Whom  I  love  well, 

If  my  soul's  soul's  voice  could  reach  you, 
It  would  tell  you,  it  would  teach  you, 
In  the  grave  where  you  are  sleeping, 
That  fond  memories  I  am  keeping 
Of  the  love  that  once  you  cherished, 
Of  the  love  that  hath  not  perished. 

Not  the  past, 
Which  did  not  last, 
Nor  the  smiling  of  the  morrow, 
Nor  the  present  with  its  sorrow, 
Can  avail  to  dull  the  aching 
Of  the  heart  when  it  is  breaking 
With  the  thoughts  of  all  your  sweetness 
In  the  days  of  love's  completeness. 

Fare  you  well, 
Isabel! 

For  the  years  we  cannot  number, 
Soft  and  dreamless  be  your  slumber, 
Where  the  oriole  is  winging 
And  the  southern  flowers  are  springing ; 
Till  hereafter  I  shall  meet  you, 
And  with  tears  and  kisses  greet  you. 

ROME,  Italy,  Aug.  12,  1903. 


65 


Roma  Antiqua 

By  yellow  Tiber's  storied  stream 
How  seems  the  pride  of  man  a  dream ; 
Here  temples  old  when  earth  was  young 
Their  shadows  o'er  this  river  flung-, 
Lone  ruins  now  of  crumbling  mold, 
Save  Angelo,  the  grim  and  old, — 
Nor  does  that  even  keep  in  trust 
Its  mighty  builder's  scattered  dust. 

Here  science,  letters,  art  an-d  song 
Amused  the  weak,  entrenched  the  strong; 
Here  Caesar  reared  his  lofty  throne, — 
His  "Golden  House"  the  lizards  own; 
Here  Emperor,  Prince  and  Prelate  slew 
The  millions  of  the  false  or  true, — 
Yea,  and  the  chosen  of  the  Lord 
In  the  red  record  of  the  sword. 

Above  the  unremembered  dead 

The  roses  bloom  where  kings  have  bled ; 

The  stately  river  winds  its  way 

As  in  the  old  imperial  day, 

And  nature  laughs  at  man's  pretense 

To  an  immortal  permanence; 

O  Love,  thy  dreams  can  never  die, 

Still  shines  the  blue  Italian  sky ! 

ROME,  Italy,  July  23,  1903. 


My  Love  of  Olden  Time55 

"O  then  to  be 

Again  with  thee 
My  love  of  olden  time !" 

To  know  the  truth 

Of  Life  and  Youth 
And  prize  their  gifts  sublime ! 

T  would  end  the  tears 

Of  bitter  years, 
Make  earth's  new  morning  gay ; 

And  all  the  flowers 

Of  all  the  hours 
Would  breathe  the  dreams  of  May. 


When  We  Shall  Part 

When  we  shall  part 
Nor  grief  nor  wailing 

Will  touch  the  heart, 
Nor  yet  swift  paling, 

Nor  tears  that  start. 

We  shall  not  know  ; 

Our  lips  as  ever 
Will  meet,  and  so, 

Through  a  forever, 
A  lost  love  grow. 


The  Return 

The  Plotter's  path  with  flowers  spread, 
With  vines  and  fruitage  overhead, 
We  revel  down  with  dancing  tread, 

Nor  dream  the  future's  bitter  moan, 

The  drear  retreat — alone! 

Then  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
Heart,  soul,  life,  love,  in  one  wild  cry 
Hearken  the  dreadful  summons — die! 

Black  is  the  path !    The  flowers  dead ! 

And  all  the  sweetness  fled ! 

Through  the  dark  night  that  ends  the  dawn, 
We  struggle  with  the  Devil's  spawn ; 
Fiercely  we  fight  for  days  agone, 
With  final  loyalty  to  truth, 
And  hope  that  prays  God's  ruth. 

The  pathway  back — soul-sickening  thought, 
With  all  its  stabbing  memories  fraught, 
Must  with  dumb  agony  be  fought ; 

Yet  happy  he — though  evil-starred, 

Who  finds  it  is  not  barred ! 


To  an  Empress 

Thou  wise  old  mother,  how  I  reverence  thee ! 
Oft  at  the  kitchen  table  of  white  pine 
I  dozed  and  dreamed,  until  the  moment  came, 

While  thy  love  watched,  believed,  and  trusted  me. 

68 


Love  to  Love 

Hold  this  heart,  or  rude  or  gently, 

So  it  please  thy  will, 
And  its  beating  will  contently 

Yearn  in  worship  still. 

But  let  thou  another  harm  it, 
Slight  the  wound  may  be, 

Yet  thy  graces  shall  not  charm  it 
Through  eternity. 


Mors  Haud  Molesta 

I  shall  not  grieve  if  my  last  sunlight  sees 
But  strangers  with  me  when  it  all  shall  end ; 

I  shall  at  least  escape  old  memories, — 
The  Judas-kiss  of  relative  or  friend. 


Rose  of  the  World 

O  Rosamund  and  Rosamonde, 
Rose-mouth  and  World-of-Roses, 

You  little  dream  what  rapture  fond 
Your  name  in  me  discloses. 

A  wealth  of  memoried  delights, 
All  scenes  of  sylvan  bowers, 

The  golden  suns,  the  silver  nights, 
And  love  to  rule  the  hours ! 


The  Poets 

The  poets  have  one  quality  sublime : 

They  have  no  envy  when  from  out  their  ranks 
One  moves,  with  words  that  win  the  applause  of 
time; 

They  lead  the  world  in  chorus  of  their  thanks. 


Sin's  Son  and  Azrael 

I  fear  not  death,  dear  Lord,  nor  his  sweet  call, 
So  that  he  be  Thy  messenger  divine ; 
For  such  as  come  from  Thee  still  bear  the  sign 

Of  that  far  morning,  when  in  Eden's  hall 

Thy  mercy  tempered  justice ;   and  on  all 
The  future  sons  of  Adam's  ruined  line 
Thy  pledge  of  grace  bestowed;    this,  too,  is 
mine, 

Therefore  I  come,  Thy  ransomed,  not  Death's 
thrall ! 

Only,  my  Father,  give  me  strength  to  shun 
Sin's  servitude,  so  at  the  latter  day 

When  I  shall  see  the  splendor  of  Thy  face, 
I  may  approach  free  as  a  trusting  son, 

Nor  in  Thy  Presence  dragged,  for  his  dis- 
play 
In  Satan's  chains, — eternity's  disgrace! 


70 


To  Father  Cronin 

How  little  did  they  know  thee,  Man  Sublime ! 
They  saw  thy  lion  front ;  entranced  they  heard 
The  eloquence  of  thine  uplifting  word — 

The   trumpet-tongue  of  truth   that  graced)  thy 
time. 

They  did  not  know  that,  like  a  little  child, 

Thy  heart  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  thy  soul 
Cared  naught  for  fame,    and    only    had    this 
goal,— 

To  enter  into  Heaven,  undefiled. 


A  Dear  Woman 

Thou  good  and  faithful  servant,  enter  in 
The  kingdom  of  thy  Lord,  whom  thou  hast 

served 
Nobly  and  high,  and  from  no  duty  swerved, 

Oh,  thou, — if  mortals  may  be, — without  sin. 

Thy  blameless  life,  now  drawn  to  peaceful  end, 
Was  filled  with  the  unselfish  aim  to  bless ; 
And  this,  earth's  truest  measure  of  success, 

Crowns  thee  as  wife,  as  mother,  and  as  friend. 


71 


lo  Triumphe  ! 

The  world  awakes,  its  shadows  flee 
Across  the  meadowlands  of  thought, 

To  where,  on  bleeding  Calvary, 
Our  victory  was  wrought. 

On  bitter  tree  of  toil  and  wrong, 

We  likewise  feel  the  lance  and  thorn ; 

Yet  lifting  high  our  triumph  song, 
We  hail  the  Easter  morn. 

This  day  is  Life  the  crowned  King, 
And  Death  creation's  conquered  slave ; 

Yea,  Love  hath  fled  with  flashing  wing, 
The  portals  of  the  grave. 

The  glory  of  that  hope  sublime, 

O  Christ,  Thou  claimest  for  Thine  own ; 
And  far  beyond  the  shock  of  time, 

Is  set  Thy  changeless  throne. 


William  A.  King 

And  Philip  said  to  his  immortal  son: 

"Get  thee  a  kingdom,  boy, 
Less  strait  than  Macedon." 

So  thou  hast  won  by  worth  respect  so  wide, 

Thou  needs  must  sympathize 
With  Alexander's  pride. 

72 


Keats 

Thy  "name  was  writ  in  water."    Even  so, 
Thy  words  were  wise,  as  later  ages  know ; 
For  while  the  ceaseless  sea  hath  ebb  and  flow, 
Oh,  Wounded  Heart,  thy  memory  shall  grow. 


Harvard  Memories 


To  Harvard  College 

On  storied  heights  of  knowledge  thou  dost  stand, 
O   Mother-Queen,   who  from   thy   throne  of 

fame 
Shedst  light  of  learning's  soul-exalting  flame 

O'er  many  realms,  but  chief  upon  that  land 

Whose  burning  hopes  ideals  high  demand; 
The  young  Republic,  stainless  yet  of  shame, 
Comes,  as  Prometheus  to  old  Gaia  came, 

To  find  the  truth  of  truth  in  thy  fair  hand. 

As  high  thy  state,  so  be  thy  high  emprise ! 

Nor    faiths    outworn,    nor    dreams    of   things 

agone, 

Find  ceaseless  habitation  in  thy  halls ! 
Morn-fronted  progress  mirrored  in  thine  eyes, 
Is  but  the  presage  of  thy  greater  dawn 
If  thou  art  true  when  trump  of  action  calls. 


Charles  F.  Dunbar 

Dunbar,  to  thy  sage  mind  and  candid  heart 
The  world  presents  no  problems  difficult ; 

Thy  simple  rule  of  fairness  doth  result 
In  giving  due  to  all,  and  each  his  part. 

April  22,  1893. 

77 


On  a  Banquet  Card 

0  rich  the  feast,  and  fair  the  festal  show, 
And  bright  the  wine,  and  sweet  the  laughter'* 

flow ; 

Yet  joy  like  this  can  soothe  but  earthly  pain, 
Its  glamours  fall  upon  the  soul, — in  vain! 

1  listen  to  the  laughter  in  a  dream, 

And  all  its  notes  like  mingled  echoes  seem 
Of  far-off  sighings  and  of  myriad  tears 
Wind-blown  across  the  desert  of  my  years. 

MEMORIAL  HALL,  CHRISTMAS,  1885. 


John  J.  Hayes 

Many  a  golden  hour  has  fled 

Since  last  I  saw  thee,  honored  friend; 
And  though  the  ways  of  men  I  tread, 
But  few  I've  found  of  heart  and  head 

And  conscience,  such  as  thou  dost  blend. 

Receive  this  greeting  o'er  the  seas, 

Nor  dream  its  fervor  e'er  shall  wane ; 
Though  silence  winters  friendship's  trees, 
Thy  memory,  like  Spring's  perfumed  breeze, 
Reverts,  again,  and  yet  again. 

April  17,  1893- 

78 


George  Martin  Lane 

Lane,  from  thy  leaching  glorious  there  blooms 
The  flower  of  culture,  delectation  rare, 
And  long  dead  centuries  with  life  are  fair, 

Nor  is  Rome  now  a  heap  of  heroes'  tombs. 

By  magic  of  thy  learning  and  thy  taste, 
We  talk  with  Pliny,  Terence,  Tacitus, 
As  friend  to  friend,  and  open  unto  us 

Are   templed   shrines   whose   memories   are   not 
waste. 

Scholars  and  poets,  conquerors  and  sages, 
Who  made  a  purple  history  their  theme, 
Crowd  to  thy  gardens,  noble  Academe, — 

Oblivious  of  the  intervening  ages  ! 

April  13,  1893- 


Ephraim  Emerton 

Thy  knowledge,  Emerton,  exact  yet  wide, 

Hath    Mil-man's    charm    and    Hallam's    spirit 

caught ; 
No  mere  array  of  facts  for  ages  dried, 

But    Church    and    State    in    living    splendor 

wrought ;  - 

And  Emperor  and  Pope  of  knightly  days, 
Again  the  heart  enchant,  the  mind  amaze. 

April  25,  1893. 

79 


Freeman  Snow 

Honor  hath  known  thee  long  to  be  her  friend, 
And  Valor  found  thee  equal  to  the  test ; 

While  Modesty  doth  all  thy  ways  attend, — 
Type  of  the  man  thy  country  loveth  best. 

April  22,  1893. 


Silas  Marcus  Macvane 

Not  thine  to  palter  when  thy  duty  spake, 
But  quick  with  generous  instinct  at  her  call, 
Thy  human  heart  was  big ;  and  braving  all 

The  yelping  pack  whose  rancors  were  awake, 

Thy  courage,  that  did  neither  bend  nor  break, 
Gave  them  no  prey  but  disappointment's  gall, — 
Ay,  checked  them  snarling  each  o'er  each  to 
fall, 

While  their  pent  sides  with  venom  balk'd  did 
shake. 

Noble  thou  art  in  genius  and  in  soul; 
One  who  in  quiet  ways  exerts  a  force 

Whose  virtue  not  with  centuries  shall  wane ; 
Tender,  and  sunny  also,  with  a  shoal 

Of  playful  wits,  like  dolphins  on  their  course, — 
Who   would   not   praise   thee,    equal-poised 
Macvane ! 

April  22,  1893. 


Charles  Pomeroy  Parker 

Parker,  thy  memory  is  blent 

With  waving  trees  and  sunny  days 

Of  my  first  year  at  Harvard  spent, 
Reading  the  old  Horatian  lays. 

And  oft  with  pleasure  I  recall 

Thy  loyal  friendship  and  thy  worth,- 

Thou  type  of  spirits  nobly  tall, 
That  bless  and  dignify  the  earth. 

April  17,  1893- 


Nathaniel  Southgate  Shaler 

Shaler,  impetuous  yet  always  true, 

Thy  spirit's  scorn  of  wrong  and  love  of  right 
Are  like  twin   swords   of  flame;    consuming 
light, 

Whereat  lies  tremble;  ay,  and  liars,  too! 

April  14,  1893. 


81 


Le  Baron  Russell  Briggs 

Lover  of  justice,  when  I  think  of  thee, 
The  faith  that  sickens  oft  in  fellow-men, 
Like  knight  refreshed,  springs  up  full-armed 
again ; 

For  thy  clean  soul  from  every  blemish  free, 

Sane  as  the  sun  that  all  the  world  may  see, 
Gives  light  and  courage  in  this  age,  as  when 
In  Golden  Arthur's  reign  the  strength  of  ten 

Girt  Gallahad,  the  flower  of  chivalry. 

Gentle  and  patient,  noble,  brave  and  wise, 
No  littleness  can  touch  thee  with  its  breath ; 
Yea,  at  thy  name  the  storms  of  meanness 

lull; 

And  wrong,  abashed  before  thy  steady  eyes, 
Seeks  of  itself  the  ways  of  its  own  death, — 
Thou  upright  man  and  incorruptible! 

April  10,  1893. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


